


though I fall from grace

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Series: the weight of us (stand alone s4 fic) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Fix-It, M/M, Missing Scene, No Angst, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Softly softly, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9272054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: Helios, the sun. The god of light. By proxy, the breath of life on a dying planet.Warmth like sun bleached stones, the dawn awakens with sleepy eyes.John Watson encircled in a perfect ring of love - a living vow."It's okay," Sherlock whispers.In his arms, John trembles. "It's not."Of course he's right. Would the sky not know its own scars?





	

_If there's a place that I could be_  
_then I'd be another memory_  
_can I be the only hope for you?_  
_because you're the only hope for me_

([+](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9xAzqKEYaCs))

 

Helios, the sun. The god of light. By proxy, the breath of life on a dying planet. 

Warmth like sun bleached stones, the dawn awakens with sleepy eyes. 

John Watson encircled in a perfect ring of love - a living vow. 

"It's okay," Sherlock whispers. 

In his arms, John trembles. "It's not." 

Of course he's right. Would the sky not know its own scars? 

"No," he agrees. 

Cautiously, Sherlock leans forward and rests his chin on a tousled mess of silver hair and breathes in life.

They stand, silence against a world saturated in noise. Sherlock's voice comes out hoarse when he speaks, blinking back moisture that threatens to give away his feelings. Nothing could've ever prepared him for the worst pain - witnessing John Watson's downfall. Watching his walls crumble around him, Rome falling in a single day.

"What can I do?," Sherlock offers. 

John sniffles. "What?"

"...Whatever you want, John."

He knows it, they always have. A seven nation army couldn't hold Sherlock from loving this man, from fighting for the air in his lungs. The jagged crack in his heart. If John were to ask him to swan dive from St Barts, he would do it. If he were to walk out the door and never look back, Sherlock would not follow. He would splinter like thousands of tiny glass shards but he wouldn't budge. 

 

For one person, the whole world over. 

 

John huffs. "Whatever I want," he echos. 

Sherlock's nose brushes against a patch of hair. His eyes flutter closed; cataloging the sensation, the smell, the beating heart within the whole of one person. 

"Yes," he confirms.

He feels rather than hears it. Softly it comes, softly it stays. Voice muffled, John murmurs. "You." 

Sherlock has to remind himself to breathe. "John?"

Face downcast, John sucks in a deep breath. Callused fingers tug Sherlock's shirt from his trousers and clumsily unfasten a neat line of pearl buttons. Next, the cuffs. When he has finished, he pushes aside a flank of shirt. 

"You," he repeats. He brushes a finger over the bullet wound that had nearly swept everything bright and beautiful from his world. Chaos on a porcelain chest, the bridge between life and death. 

Helios, Sherlock thinks. He must've been born with light in his eyes, a sort of magic in his fingertips. John, a conductor of light. An entire world thrown into chaotic midnight without him. How he has missed this. 

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmurs. His arms helpless at his side, tears in his eyes. 

I deserve to live in darkness, he thought. 

John sniffs, straightens. Despite his stance, his touch remains gentle. He is rooted in place. "No. Sherlock, no. You're not allowed to do that. Not  _you._ Just...come here."

The humble sunflower does not need to be told twice - he has loved the sun since Eden. 

Sherlock steps forward, burying his head in the crook of John's shoulder. He wraps both arms around his waist and shakes like a leaf in the midst of a great hurricane. John melts, defenses down. He curls a hand around Sherlock's neck and slides the other under the mostly discarded shirt to his lower back.

Sherlock's skin tingles under the touch. 

Briefly, he registers footfalls on the creaking stairs but can't be bothered to care. 

 

Standing in the doorway, Mrs. Hudson gasps and covers her mouth. Her eyes grow damp at the sight - her boys home at last. Loving, giving. John catches her eye but he doesn't pull away from Sherlock. He no longer puts up walls built with lies and excuses. Instead, he smiles. It's small and fleeting but it's enough to make her retreat downstairs - such a love doesn't need an audience to be real. 

 

Outside, London thrives. A busy hive of activity and crime, passion and danger. But still, the sun rises. 

**Author's Note:**

> I credit FleurDeLis221B for forever inspiring my work with her beautiful visuals in "Cataracts". if you haven't read it, you should and when you're done, read it again. it's gorgeous.


End file.
